


I'd Tell Your Fortune But The Words Don't Rhyme

by terryh_nyan



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Breathplay, Competition, Dare, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, F/M, First Time, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Lust Potion/Spell, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Riding, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, Yennefer Steals Houses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24613933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryh_nyan/pseuds/terryh_nyan
Summary: “Good. Then it’s a bet.”Yennefer’s voice is sticky-sweet in the dim light of Geralt’s bedroom – although Geralt would hardly call it his. Not because the room, and the mansion around it, are just the last in a long line of properties the mage ‘borrowed,’ but because he has yet to spend one second alone in it.“Care to shake on it?” Jaskier’s words come out just as low, as he stretches a hand towards Yennefer with defiant eyes.---Or, Geralt gets hit by a succubus spell and literally no one cares.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 13
Kudos: 235





	I'd Tell Your Fortune But The Words Don't Rhyme

_Show your face, don’t hide, take off the mask now  
_ _Underneath is a deep dark secret  
_ _Take me for a ride upon your white horse  
_ _Take your love ‘cause I don’t want to keep it  
_ _I am out of place and honey you are out of Time_  
_I’d tell your fortune but the words don’t rhyme  
_ _I’m not your chambermaid, you’re not my lord_

(“Chambermaid” – Emilie Autumn)

“Good. Then it’s a bet.”

Yennefer’s voice is sticky-sweet in the dim light of Geralt’s bedroom – although Geralt would hardly call it _his_. Not because the room, and the mansion around it, are just the last in a long line of properties the mage ‘borrowed,’ but because he has yet to spend one second alone in it.

“Care to shake on it?” Jaskier’s words come out just as low, as he stretches a hand towards Yennefer with defiant eyes.

The mage regards him with an up-and-down look and a sceptic eyebrow, but then a smile curves her full lips. She takes the bard’s hand with one swift, elegant motion, giving a single downward shake. Geralt sighs, running a hand across is heated forehead and through his hair; he’d really hoped to sweat this out in peaceful solitude and blessed, blessed silence.

A succubus attack is nothing like the myths that make their way from mouth to dirty mouth in taverns and brothels. The head doesn’t cloud over with lust, drowning out all reason – that’s just what certain men like to tell themselves, and others, to justify their actions. It also doesn’t threaten your life in the slightest, as no one has ever died from blue balls and no one ever will.

It is, however, a substantial inconvenience. Especially if your lovers start fighting over whose prerogative it is to _support you_ through it.

It’s not like Geralt was oblivious to it before; far from it. It’s just that the competition between Yennefer and Jaskier was so much easier to ignore when they only crossed paths a couple of times a year.

Geralt will admit, reluctantly and to himself alone, that this may partly be his fault. For a Witcher who’d never wanted to need anyone, he did a pretty spectacular job at falling in love with _two_ _people_.

The ridiculous thing is, the sharing itself hadn’t been a problem. No big conversation was needed with either one of them: when he’d tried to breach the subject with Jaskier, the bard had just chuckled and told him he’d never expected to keep him all to himself anyway. He believes the words _Geralt of Rivia is a treasure of the Continent_ and _art isn’t meant to be hogged, and neither is that ass_ were used. However, Jaskier had made sure to spend the night leaving marks on every inch of his skin, just in case someone else got the wrong idea.

With Yennefer, it had always been the same whimsical, unpredictable push-and-pull, so there weren’t exactly any grounds for claims of exclusivity – nor Yen was the type to make them. Before he even had the time to mull over bringing up the subject, they’d run into her on their way to Toussaint: she’d taken one look at Jaskier, curved her lips, and commented _Congratulations. At long last._

So, the sharing? Completely fine.

The problem?

Neither one of his lovers could stand the sight of the other, especially over prolonged periods of time.

When it was only the occasional night of overlap, Geralt would just nip it in the bud by making himself scarce, polishing his swords until they both fell asleep or meditating until morning. They were even courteous about it, sometimes: if he’d been travelling with Jaskier for a few months already and they bumped into Yennefer, he’d be the one to push him inside her tent and disappear with his lute in hand and a roguish smile on his face.

“ _Oh, go to her, for Melitele’s sake, you hardly ever see each other!_ ”

And when the reverse happened, and they came across Jaskier after a long time of separation, Yennefer would roll her eyes at them and suddenly be called away on magical business. She never stuck around more than a consecutive week, anyway.

“ _Relax_ ,” she’d once commented at Geralt’s concern. “ _I know you two are attached at the hip. Believe me, there’s no envy here_.”

Except that now their travels had converged, however briefly, and this was happening. The past week had been like watching a cat and a dog poke at each other all day long, every day, and it had given Geralt the headache of his life.

So, when he dragged himself over the threshold after fulfilling his contract and was immediately ambushed by not one, but two worried sets of eyes – which had turned into fiery pits of competition in under five minutes – he’d given up on reining in his exasperation.

“ _Settle this_. _I don’t care how. Just… enough. Please._ ”

In any other situation, he would’ve stormed out and slept under the stars side by side with Roach, the one reasonable creature left in their party. But with succubus-induced fever tearing at his nerves and making him dizzy, his pulse accelerated and each cell in his body begging for relief, he was in no state to take a single step without risking a flat fall on his face.

“ _Alright, why not? Let the bard have you tonight. Then, when it’s obvious a succubus spell is beyond his… capabilities, you’re welcome to rinse off and come knocking for some actual skill._ ”

“ _Oh, that’s… okay. Wow. You know what? I’m hearing a lot of talk here, witch, but you know what I’m not seeing? That’s right: you, putting your money where your mouth is._ ”

And now here they are.

“No take-backsies,” the mage drawls, looking askance at Jaskier, their hands still joined over Geralt’s legs. There’s electricity in the air – the Witcher can taste it: a scent carrying the promise of a storm.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaskier replies, voice low and charged. There are two things in this world the bard has absolute confidence in: his music and his ability to please.

Geralt expects to find them at his sides in no time, climbing over him and pressing him between their bodies as they shoot each other competitive glances. In his current state, he would hardly be able to raise any objections. Succubus lust doesn’t drain reason, but it does put pride very low on one’s list of priorities.

However, as they shake on it, Yennefer’s eyes glint like gemstones in the moonlight and her smile grows wider. “Good,” she says, and, without breaking eye contact, she tightens her grip and pulls the bard over Geralt’s body and on top of her.

Geralt blinks.

Jaskier makes a surprised sound as he lands on the mattress, bracing himself with one hand, the other still trapped within Yennefer’s grasp.

The Witcher can pinpoint the exact moment Jaskier’s mind catches up with Yennefer’s idea of a challenge. The mage’s gaze is confident and amused, violet eyes blinking up at the bard. _Daring_ him.

Something only few people know: Jaskier can get insanely competitive. Geralt will never forget the lengths the bard went that day at the river, nearly getting himself killed by the djinn just to get an apology out of him.

Perhaps that’s why he _knows_ , before either of them does; before Jaskier’s lips hover just a hair’s breadth from Yennefer’s, parted only slightly, and morph into a smug, cheeky smile as they bypass the mage’s mouth entirely. After one last moment of reflection, he murmurs “So be it,” and slowly sinks lower.

Geralt finds that he cannot tear his eyes away.

Jaskier’s experience with the fairer sex becomes evident in the way his fingers make quick work of the laces of Yennefer’s bodice, as he trails light kisses and soft nibs down her neck and throat, all the way to the curve of her breasts. He sends a few glances Yennefer’s way to confirm that this is what she wants, that she hasn’t changed her mind about the terms of their bet or that he hasn’t misunderstood – but she only cocks an eyebrow at him and regards him with a cocky expression, which is all the answer Jaskier needs to throw scruple out the window.

The mage’s face gives away nothing, but the Witcher doesn’t miss the way her pulse quickens as Jaskier’s fingers push the fabric of her dress out of the way in a deliberately slow motion, eyes darting upwards to lock with hers every now and then. He feels his mouth go dry.

“Wait,” Jaskier murmurs then, glancing Geralt’s way, but still talking to Yennefer. “Does this still count for the whole…” he gestures at the Witcher’s feverish state.

Yen mulls it over for a moment, then shrugs. “Should be fine.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says simply, accepting her judgement in magical matters without question, and picks up right where he left off.

If Geralt feels any kind of way about having gone from the center of attention to the sidelines, watching things escalate way out of his control, the sensation is quickly overwritten by the heat pooling low in his body. It’s like a fever dream, made only more absurd by the fact that everything happening in front of his eyes was born out of pure spite.

And yet, there is quiet anticipation mixed with the challenge in Yen’s eyes as Jaskier exposes the sensitive skin of her breasts. Slowly, maintaining eye contact until the last possible moment, he closes his mouth over a nipple, and Yen bites back a sound low in her throat.

He works the soft skin thoroughly, with lips and tongue and just a hint of teeth. Yennefer is good at hiding her reactions from the bard, but she can’t hide any of them from Geralt: he catches every spike in her heartbeat, hears the shortness in her breath as clear as music. Moreover, even without his enhanced senses, he _knows_ her; knows what she likes and how she likes it. And even though Jaskier doesn’t, he proves to be a very fast learner.

Whenever Jaskier’s hands and mouth find themselves traveling over warm skin, Geralt can see all of his awkwardness melt away, the same way it does when his lute and voice are filling the room with music. It doesn’t matter if it’s the shoddiest tavern or the most regal of courts: when he plays, Jaskier’s attention is on his task completely. And in the end, the human body is nothing but its own kind of instrument.

Just like a concert, as Jaskier’s lips work, so do his hands. They travel slowly up Yennefer’s thighs and under her skirts, a feather-light touch that makes the mage sigh with impatience despite herself.

“Having trouble finding your way?” she croons, looking at him under veiled eyes.

Jaskier tilts his head upwards, matching the challenge in her expression. “Not at all,” he says, voice charged with promise.

And then, with one swift motion, he dives under her skirts.

He undresses her slowly, under the watchful gaze of both Yen and Geralt. Even without the spell lighting every single one of his nerves on fire, the scene would be enough to make him forget his name.

Jaskier dips his head between her legs, and Yennefer makes a fist around the sheets.

Her expression betrays almost nothing, but her scent tells the Witcher a whole different story. As Jaskier’s tongue explores the folds in Yen’s flesh, his face a mask of concentration, his fingers come up to gently hold her hips still. There’s such a stark contrast, between the spirit of their challenge and the attention the bard is dedicating to setting every inch of Yennefer’s body aflame, that Geralt is absolutely awestruck. He has to clench his hand to stop the impulse of reaching down and stroking himself to the rhythm of Jaskier’s torturous laps.

“Nu-uh,” the bard murmurs, halting his work for only a second. “You told us to settle this, Geralt. Remember?” Blue eyes dart upwards to meet his. “You don’t get to play yet.”

Geralt takes one slow, deep breath. The pressure in his body is insane, but he stills obediently.

Here it is, he thinks distantly: the side of Jaskier that people don’t often get to see. The calm gaze, the words of command whispered with an even voice. The way his bottomless passion takes the backseat and his enthusiasm is channeled in a completely different manner.

He works Yennefer with his tongue until her whole body is radiating heat, until she’s biting down hard on her lower lip, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her gasp. And then, when a low hum does escape from her throat, he smiles against her skin and trails one hand slowly up her thigh.

Soon, the mage is quivering under the combined assault of his mouth and his fingers, desperately trying not to squirm. She curses under her breath as Jaskier’s fingers crook deliciously inside her, and bites down on her own arm to muffle the sounds.

Geralt can sense how close she is. No doubt Jaskier can, too.

Which is why Geralt looks at her quizzically as she twists her fingers in the bard’s hair and pulls his head up, mere seconds before her orgasm rips through her.

Jaskier is quiet for a moment, no doubt relishing in her reddened cheeks and heaving chest. “Conceding defeat?” he quips, lips red and shiny.

“Not quite yet.”

It’s so fast Geralt almost misses it: with one fluid motion, Yen wraps her legs around Jaskier’s hips and pushes herself off the mattress, flipping him onto his back and knocking the breath out of his lungs. Once the bard grasps what’s happening, he’s already trapped beneath her, confusion dancing in his blown-out eyes.

Yennefer smiles at him from above. “My turn.”

Without prompting, Jaskier’s hands go flying above his head, wrists crossed and pinned down. The scent of magic fills the air.

“That’s cheating,” he points out, but there’s no real complaint behind his words. Geralt can see the anticipation twinkling in his eyes, making his lips curve upwards.

“You’re welcome to sing me into submission, if you can,” Yennefer says, the rhythm of her breath only just starting to grow steadier.

“I was under the impression I’d just done that,” the bard replies, but his voice contorts into a hiss as Yennefer’s hand makes quick work of his breeches and slips inside.

“Think again.”

Her fingers move slowly beneath the fabric, eliciting a soft sigh from Jaskier’s lips. The only coherent thought in the Witcher’s mind is a constant stream of swears as he braces himself against the bedpost, his entire body begging for relief.

Yennefer seems to notice, but doesn’t show any more mercy than Jaskier had. “What’s wrong, now, Geralt? I thought you begged us to do this?” she coos, pursing her lips in a fake pout.

And while _this_ was never what he had in mind, the Witcher can do nothing more than groan and grit his teeth as Jaskier makes the most musical sound in the world and he’s forbidden from swallowing it down for him, the bard’s lips parted invitingly and completely out of his reach.

His fingers twitch towards the gentle curve of Yennefer’s waist, but once again, he restrains himself. There’s something intoxicating about being cast to the side and ordered around by the very same people who had been fighting over him not long ago. It sends sparks down Geralt’s spine and thickens the fog in his brain, leaving him wanting like never before.

“Good boy,” Yennefer sends a praise his way as she frees Jaskier from his breeches. And then, in sharp contrast with the cadenced rhythm she herself had set, the mage sinks down on him with a single, brusque thrust.

“Holy–” Jaskier chokes, biting the inside of his cheek. He stills for a moment and heaves a long, shaky breath to keep himself in check.

As Yen’s heat envelopes him completely, Geralt can see him count to ten inside his head. They’re both cut from the same, ridiculously competitive cloth, and Jaskier looks determined not to give any more ground than Yennefer’s already taken.

Pursing her lips in a disappointed pout, as she notes that the bard hasn’t fallen apart at her surprise attack like she’d hoped, the mage starts rolling her hips in a slow, torturous back and forth. She’s not above playing the long game, after all.

And Jaskier isn’t above playing dirty. His hands may be bound by whatever invisible force she conjured, but he has no need for them. He locks eyes with Yen, who already has a catlike smile on her face as if savoring her victory, and gives one well-timed, upwards thrust. It wipes the smile clean off her lips, now opening on their own accord around a deep, throaty sound.

It’s like watching an intoxicating game of chess. And it’s Yen’s turn, now, to rip the grin off the bard’s face: she does it by curling her long fingers around the base of his neck and pressing strategically against the pulsing veins at the sides.

Jaskier looks taken aback for a moment, but then understanding seems to dawn on him. Yennefer licks her lips.

“If it’s too much, you can just say _please_ ,” she whispers, half-mocking, and Jaskier returns her condescending expression with a defiant smile.

“Won’t be necessary,” he replies, choked and low, and it’s all Yennefer needs to hear to start moving again, this time faster.

Geralt feels, with unwavering certainty, that he isn’t going to survive this. He’s the one who’s about to break down and beg; each nervous termination is screaming inside his body, overwhelmed with the crippling sensation of _want, want, want_. Never has he been stretched so thin, never has he felt stripped down to the bone like he is right now, watching Yennefer ride Jaskier with a hand wrapped around his neck, Jaskier’s features contorted in an expression of painful, intense pleasure.

As their faces grow a delicious shade of red – Jaskier’s especially – and their breaths quicken with the rhythm of Yennefer’s hips, Geralt knows he can’t take it anymore. Two sets of eyes blown with lust turn to him, feeling him shift on the bed, and he gathers whatever mental strength he has left to stare right back and _beg_.

“Please,” he huffs, succubus poison and just plain arousal setting his veins on fire, and his two lovers exchange a glance that he doesn’t have the focus to place.

Then, Yennefer’s fingers retreat from Jaskier’s neck – which is probably for the best; he would’ve sooner passed out than admit defeat, and they all know it – and slide across the silk sheets, coming to rest on his knee.

That simple contact alone is enough to make Geralt sigh, but then he feels another hand, bigger and rough with a musician’s callouses, make its way to the hem of his trousers.

Their combined touches are feather-light at first, palms sliding softly on clothed flesh, and it’s already starting to feel like more than he can bear. It doesn’t help that neither one of them stops moving against the other, the pace slower but just as cadenced, just as daring of each other.

He doesn’t know whose hand it is that frees him, whose fingers wrap around the base of his erection, or whose palm envelopes him at the tip granting him blessed friction. He only knows it sends sparks down his spine and turns his blood to liquid heat.

In any other circumstance, he’d be ashamed of how hard he’s panting, how close he is already – but the people in front of him only grip him more firmly, brushing and squeezing and pulling at his very seams, matching the sounds escaping from his lips with more of their own.

Yennefer guides his hand on the curve of her breast, and Jaskier peppers the knuckles of his other hand with reverent kisses. It makes the Witcher light-headed and trembling.

When his climax shakes him to the core, he doesn’t have much attention left for his surroundings. And yet, he catches through half-lidded eyes the moment Yennefer’s muscles go tight, a breathy sigh filling the air; and he hears Jaskier’s head slam against the headboard when he throws it back, moaning a profanity at the ceiling.

There’s a strange exchange of glances between the mage and the bard afterwards, as they’re both panting hard against each other, something that looks like a newfound respect laced with a hint of something more. But Geralt is too wrecked to tune into it. He collapses on the mattress, chest heaving and head blissfully empty, and the Witcher soon feels two familiar weights make their way at his sides.

Long minutes tick by in the quiet of the night. Geralt settles more deeply in the warmth of the double embrace, wrapping his arms around the shoulders of both his lovers.

At some point, he hears Yennefer’s voice murmur: “So…”

“Sooo…” Jaskier echoes.

All his senses are warning him that it’s better if he doesn’t open his eyes. But, damn him, he does – he cracks a yellow iris in the dim light of candles and finds twin stares fixed on him.

“Who won?”

Geralt rolls his eyes so far, he wonders if they’ll ever come out the back of his head.

“C’mon, Geralt,” Jaskier continues, poking him lightly in the ribs. “I promise we’ll take it with grace.”

“Hmm,” Yennefer nods.

“Tell us.”

All the Witcher can do is groan.

And yet, the questions send the images right back in front of his eyes: the slant of Yennefer’s back as she moved like the tide, the wet noises of Jaskier’s tongue…

They’re not good thoughts for him to dwell on in his current condition, with succubus poison still coursing through his body.

“Oh. I see,” Yennefer quips, sending a meaningful look Jaskier’s way. “It appears he’s going to need a rematch.”

Jaskier follows her gaze down to Geralt’s hips. “Well, well. It seems you’re right.”

It takes her the space of a heartbeat to climb on top of the Witcher and drag her hips down against his, pulling a groan right out of his throat.

“Hey,” Jaskier protests, although feebly.

“Relax,” Yennefer says. “As soon as you catch your breath, you can have the rest of him.”

That train of thought immediately resonates through Geralt’s body. He gets lost in the thought of being buried in Yennefer’s heat, at the mercy of her hips, as Jaskier pushes deep down inside him, whispering those low commands in his ear…

Jaskier seems to mull it over for the span of one second. “Yeah, that sounds agreeable,” he concludes, hand sliding under his thigh to grasp at the firm curve of his ass. “Doesn’t it, Geralt?”

Geralt sighs in what is a mixture of frustration and anticipation, and chooses not to reply.

**Author's Note:**

> I said I'd be back, didn't I?
> 
> PS. I actually like the fuck-or-die/magic-made-them-do-it tropes, so don't take this as a jab! I just thought it would be fun for Geralt to come rain on everyone's parade like he does in canon with monster myths. Nobody likes a fact-checker, Geralt.
> 
> #YenneferKeepsStealingHouses


End file.
